‘Who said I’d come back?’ I asked.
‘Mr Ishmael,’ said the fellow. ‘Oh, and he said that the future of humanity rested upon you receiving this letter. And that I wasn’t ever to open it, just wait until you turned up and give it to you.’
I looked this fellow up and down. ‘And he told you that, and you have had the letter in your possession for all these years and never opened it to see what was inside?’
The fellow nodded. ‘That is so.’
‘And you really never opened it?’
‘No,’ said the fellow. ‘Never, ever, I swear.’
‘But why?’
The fellow made the face of fear. ‘Have you ever met Mr Ishmael?’ he asked.
44
I took the envelope from him and he sighed. Deeply. Very deeply, he sighed. And then he made a joyful face and shouted, ‘I am free! I am free!’ And he ran from the hotel bar. Somewhat madly.
Leaving his drink. To which I helped myself.
‘I shouldn’t let you steal his drink,’ said the barman, ‘but I will turn a blind eye to it if you let me see the contents of that letter. That doorman has sat on that letter for so long, like a lady hawk on a nest. It’s nearly driven him insane. But he wouldn’t open it. He’d been told not to and he did what he was told. Have you ever met this Mr Ishmael character?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have.’
‘So open up the letter, let’s have a look.’
I glanced up at the barman. ‘If you will stand me drinks in this bar until I want no more, I will.’
‘It’s a done deal.’ The barman stuck out his hand for a shake and I shook it.
‘Then let’s have a look inside,’ I said. And I opened the envelope. There was a sheet of paper inside, good quality vellum. And a message, handwritten, upon it.
Dear Tyler (it read)
If you are reading this, then it means that you survived your encounter with Papa Crossbar. And if this is the case, then it means that I chose wisely when I chose you. I have orchestrated your life since you were a child, and for one purpose only: that together we may thwart the plans of the Evil One. You and I, together. Do not return to England. Feel free to call your family and tell them that you are alive, but do not return to England. Your future lies here. There is much that I will explain to you, but not yet. You will not know at this moment what you should do next. So have a drink and give it a moment and it will come to you. As if delivered. As if it was meant to be. I enclose a one-hundred-dollar bill. Use it unwisely.
Yours sincerely
Mr Ishmael
And there was a one-hundred-dollar bill enclosed in the envelope.
The barman examined it. ‘It’s real,’ he said. ‘Real as real.’
‘And why wouldn’t it be?’ I asked him.
‘Well.’ The barman took up the letter again. Because he had been reading it with me. ‘This is pretty far-out stuff. You coming in here, thinking it’s nineteen sixty-nine. And this letter. I mean, “thwart the plans of the Evil One”. That’s not the kind of line you hear every day. Except, perhaps, down on East 2001 Street, the Science Fiction Quarter.’
‘There isn’t really a Science Fiction Quarter in New York, is there?’ I asked the barman.
‘No, not really,’ he said.
‘I thought not.’
‘It’s in San Francisco.’
‘And that’s not true either, is it?’
The barman shook his head. ‘Give me a break,’ he said. ‘I was just trying to big-up my part a bit. If you are some kind of Saviour of All Mankind, then just being in the same room as you and talking to you is probably going to be one of the most significant things in my life.’
‘You think?’
‘Of course. So when I get to tell my grandchildren that I met you and they say, “So what did you talk about, Grandpop?” I don’t want to have to reply, “Nothing. I just poured him drinks.” ’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But as I, although I might at times have a high opinion of myself, do not believe that I will be a Saviour of All Mankind, I doubt very much whether it matters what you tell your grandchildren.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that!’ said the barman.
‘What? ’
‘Well, I’m gay, aren’t I? And the thought that I was going to have to go straight and get married and have children, so that they could have children, so I could tell them that I met you, frankly had little appeal.’
‘So it’s all worked out okay for you,’ I said. ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘I would.’
‘Then help yourself to the optics as all barmen do.’22
The barman went off in a bit of a huff and I gulped on with my drinking. And I reread the letter and I did a lot of deep, deep thinking.
I really didn’t like that bit in the letter about Mr Ishmael having orchestrated my life since I was a child. But the more I thought about it, the clearer it became that he had been orchestrating my life from the moment I met him at the Southcross Road School dance, and from then until now. Which I didn’t like one bit.
I drank my drinks, ordered more and paid with the hundred-dollar bill. And I counted my change when I recovered it, because I wasn’t that drunk yet. Although I was obviously sufficiently drunk as to have forgotten that the barman was supposed to be paying for all my drinks that evening, because I’d showed him the letter. And then I had a bit of an idea. I would phone home. Speak to my mum and dad and to Andy.
That was a good idea.
That was not a good idea.
I phoned and I did get through. And I spoke to my mum, who was up even though it was three a.m. English time, hoovering the carpets. But with the Hoover turned off, so as not to wake my daddy, who was no longer working as a roadie for The Stones but now as a roadie for T. Rex.
My mum got all tearful when she heard my voice. And then she told me that I was a very bad boy for not calling for so long and how had it been in prison?
‘Prison?’ I asked her.
‘Your brother Andy said that you had been taken off to prison for being naughty with children.’
‘What?’ I said. Considerably appalled.
‘Well, I was so worried that you were dead or something. And I kept on and on at Andy to find out the truth. And finally he said that you were okay, in perfect health and being well looked after in the psychiatric ward of Sing Sing.’
‘Oh splendid,’ I said. ‘Good old Andy.’
‘But I don’t see much of him now,’ said my mum. ‘He mostly lives on his island.’
‘His island?’
‘In the Caribbean. Near Haiti. Andy Isle it’s called, I think. He flies there on his private jet.’
And I groaned very loudly.
‘You should have stayed in the band,’ said my mum, ‘rather than getting yourself involved in illegal playground activities.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ I said to her. ‘And goodbye.’ And I replaced the receiver and never spoke to my mother ever again.
And I returned to the bar.
‘Are you going to buy me a drink now?’ asked the barman.
‘Yes,’ I said and I sighed when I said it. ‘Why not? Go on. What will you have?’
The barman helped himself to the drink of his choice, took my money, cashed it up in the register and obligingly short-changed me.
I just sort of smiled at this and said, ‘Life.’
‘It’s a funny old world, ain’t it?’ said the barman.
‘Oh yes,’ I agreed. ‘I have no idea at all exactly what the purpose of my life has been up until now. Or even if it had a purpose. I am inclined to think that life is totally without purpose.’
‘And you would be correct in this thinking,’ the barman agreed.
‘You think?’
‘Of course. Life is a finite entity. Men live, men die, and whatever they leave behind - literature, music, art - will eventually die also. Nothing lasts for ever. All creations have a finite existence, therefore all c
reations are ultimately without purpose. Because once they have ceased to be, and the memory of them has also ceased to be, it is as if they have never existed. It is all without purpose. Well done for noticing it.’
‘Thanks a lot!’ I said.
‘My pleasure. So how do you intend to go about your mission of saving Mankind? You apparently being the Chosen One and everything.’
‘I have no idea at all,’ I said, downing further bourbon. ‘In fact, I have no idea what to do. It feels as if my whole life really has been orchestrated and I have absolutely no free will at all. I am just a pawn in some terrible game. Or, more precisely, a puppet, with someone pulling my strings.’
‘Nasty,’ said the barman. ‘That must be horrid. Perhaps you need something to take your mind off all this. A distraction. A hobby or something.’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
‘You’re out of work at the moment, right?’
‘Absolutely. I was a musician. And also a private detective. But I’m out of work now and totally lost.’
‘A private detective, did you say?’
‘I did say that, yes.’
‘Well, that’s a coincidence. Perhaps this is what you need.’
The barman pulled that copy of American Heroes Today magazine towards him and leafed through its pages to the small ads. ‘This might be what you are looking for,’ he said.
He had circled the ad in question.
With a thick-nibbed pen.
The American Heritage Society is proud to announce that due to Government funding, the 27th Street Private Detective District is to be saved from redevelopment. A number of office placements have been made available to suitable candidates. One remains.
Lot 27. The office of Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye, missing, presumed dead. Comprising hatstand, carpet, ceiling fan, filing cabinet, desk, two chairs, venetian blind.
To be sold as a single lot. Including also the remaining wardrobe of Lazlo Woodbine, comprising trench coat, fedora, Oxfords, trusty Smith & Wesson, etc.
Eighty-five dollars.
‘How much change do you have from your one-hundred-dollar bill?’ asked the barman.
And I took out my change and counted it.
‘Eighty-five dollars,’ I said.
45
Exactly eighty-five dollars! How handy was that?
It was indeed a happy coincidence and with its coming I recalled once more that the barman was supposed to be paying for my drinks, and so I let him buy me a few more doubles before I made my way back to 27th Street.
Now, I suppose you might say that I was a wee bit tiddly by the time I got to the famous office where the famous detective had met with his clients before heading off to his other three locations in order to solve his cases. Well, perhaps a tad tiddly, rather than just a wee bit. But I was able to tap on the door without putting my hand through the glass and string sufficient words into sufficient sentences to make myself understood.
The man from American Heritage was very nice. He was just going home when I arrived, but he looked quite pleased to see me. He said that if I hadn’t arrived, then he was preparing to give the whole thing up as a lost cause, auction off the contents of Mr Woodbine’s office and let the building be demolished to make way for a proposed detective-themed shopping mall.
‘I’m sure the developer will be very pleased when I tell them that someone has agreed to take over Mr Woodbine’s business,’ he said, ‘because it will save them all the trouble of building that brand-new mall.’
I agreed that it was a possibility and asked where I had to sign.
There wasn’t much in the way of paperwork involved. And I was certainly never asked any probing or personal questions. It was just ‘sign your name on this here dotted line and hand over your eighty-five dollars’. And that was that. And he shook my hand, gave me an official deed to the office and a licence (another licence! But this time one that would work in my favour). Handed me a set of keys, told me that the water cooler needed refilling and that if I wished to make a complaint to City Hall regarding the solo saxophonist, whose dreamy rhythms drifted even now through the window, then I would have to do so in writing.
Then shook my hand once more and took his leave.
Chuckling.
Yes, that is what I said, chuckling. Why chuckling? Well, I have absolutely no idea at all. But that’s what he did. Perhaps it was just relief at finally getting the perfect tenant to take over from Laz. Who can say? Not me.
He shut the door behind him and I was left alone. And as it was now getting dark, I switched on the light. And then recalled that the man from American Heritage had also mentioned something about the electricity having been switched off. Although I hadn’t really been listening carefully to that bit. So I upped the venetian blind and let what light there was enter the office. It was rather a cool light, really, being composed of a street lamp on the alleyway corner and the flashing neon of a night club called The Engine Room. I sat down in Lazlo’s chair - Lazlo’s chair that was now my chair - and put my feet up on the desk that had also been Lazlo’s but was now my desk.
And I smiled considerably.
The office wasn’t quite how I remembered it. It had been tidied up a bit. And repainted in a colour that I did not know the name of. And the carpet that dared not speak its name had been replaced by one whose name I wouldn’t have listened to even if it had dared to speak it. So it wasn’t quite Lazlo Woodbine’s office. But it was his office. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do. And I thought to myself, as one might think—
HOW COOL IS THIS?
I was now, to all intents and purposes and things of that nature generally, Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye.
HOW COOL WAS THAT? Well cool.
Although, all right, there were certain things that weren’t all that cool.
The years that were missing out of my life.
The entire horrible Papa Crossbar business.
The fact that I had missed out on fame and fortune with The Sumerian Kynges and hadn’t even got a songwriting credit on the Greatest Hits album.
And that it was I who was, let us say, indirectly responsible for Lazlo Woodbine vanishing into the ether.
I have not, perhaps, printed this list in order of priority. But these things were not cool.
But having this office was.
And so I smiled, somewhat contentedly, which is not to say also smugly, and thought that what I should do now would be to go somewhere and celebrate my good fortune. Back to the Pentecost Hotel, might it be, to take advantage of the barman? No, it was a long walk back. Across the street to Fangio’s Bar, then?
That was a better idea.
The light was now uncertain in the office and I stumbled about a bit, bumping into some things and knocking other things over. But during this stumbling I did come across three things that very much took my interest: a fedora and a trench coat and a trusty Smith & Wesson. Lazlo Woodbine’s spares, I supposed. So I took off my coat and togged up, and tucked the trusty Smith & Wesson into an inside trench-coat pocket. The fedora fitted and I knew I looked cool.
And then I left my office. Locking my door behind me.
And I crossed the street to Fangio’s Bar and pushed open that famous shatter-glass door. And Fangio’s Bar had not changed at all. It was the same woe-begotten dump of a dive, and this I found a comfort. I mooched in with a grin on my chops and hailed the fat-boy barman.
Because there he stood, as large as Life, but slightly less glossy than Vogue. He wore the look of a man who knew just where he was. And also an eyepatch and cutlass.
‘Hello there,’ I said to the fat-boy. ‘And so we meet again.’
‘Arrr, aharr harr,’ went Fangio and he rolled his visible eye.
As I was already somewhat in my cups, I felt I was up to the challenge.
‘Old war wound, is it?’ I asked, approaching the bar counter and hoisting myself onto the bar stool that had formally been Lazlo Woodbine’s favourite and wou
ld now be mine. ‘Or is it medieval mouth-music from the mountains of Mongolia?’
‘Well, swab me decks,’ said Fangio. ‘ ’Tis you, so ’tis, so ’tis.’
‘Give me just one clue,’ I asked, ‘and then I can join you in this.’
Fangio sighed and did thumbings. To a sign above the bar:
FANGIO’ S BAR WELCOMES PIRATES (It read)
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see. Pirates.’
‘You see pirates?’ asked Fangio, lifting his eyepatch. ‘Where?’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘What I said was, I see, full stop, pirates.’
‘Right,’ said Fangio. ‘So what will it be, Laz - a tot of rum, a parrot or a flog-around-the-fleet? The last one is a cocktail, before you ask.’
‘I wasn’t going to. But why are you calling me Laz?’
‘The guy from American Heritage drinks in here every day and just popped in for a quick bottle of champagne to celebrate the fact that some sucker, I mean, some plucky son of a gun, had purchased the franchise. And you’re wearing Laz’s spare clothes, so it must be you.’
I was impressed by Fangio’s reasoning. But had he just said sucker? I glared pointy daggers at him.
‘Of course, I was thinking of buying it myself,’ Fangio continued, ‘But I couldn’t afford the inflated price. Oh damn.’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Inflated price?’ I said. ‘Franchise,’ I said, also.
‘I read in this month’s copy of Detective Franchises Today magazine that P. P. Penrose was selling franchises worldwide now,’ said Fangio. ‘He started out with one in Brentford, England, and due to its success he started selling them all over the world.’
‘But I bought the office of the real Lazlo Woodbine,’ I said.